


The Writer and the Prophet

by Doctor_Discord



Series: The Ego Manor [115]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Blood and Gore, Chronic Nightmares, Death, Gore, Hemophilia, Mental Anguish, Nightmares, Poor Host, The Author is a Twisted Bastard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-12-01 22:34:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20920460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doctor_Discord/pseuds/Doctor_Discord
Summary: The Host suffers from the worst nightmare he's had in a long time. And he can't tell whether it was truly a nightmare, or far,farworse.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [You Only Live Once](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18042776) by [Im_The_Doctor (Bofur1)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Im_The_Doctor). 

_The Host blinked his eyes open, and his stomach dropped._

_He couldn’t move. He was forced to stare at the carnage of the meeting room. Blood painted the walls, making them drip red in gory patterns. _Bodies _were scattered about. The bodies of his family. The bodies of those he’d worked _so hard _to gain the trust of, all positioned in their designated places like some grotesque parody._

_King was the closest to him, head against the table, with a massive tree limb jammed into the back of his skull, visible poking out the underside of the table. Bim was holding his hand, slumped back in his chair, head tilted back. His chest was ripped open and dissected, leaving nothing but his heart resting in his ribcage and his mutilated organs resting in an oozing heap on the table._

_Eric had been dismembered, his arms and legs hacked off and resting in a disorganized pile on the table. His hands and feet had been removed at the joints, the severed limbs cut into pieces at the elbows and knees. The pile of flesh and bone oozed blood sluggishly out onto the table, and Eric stared at them with glazed, dead eyes._

_Ed’s arms were crossed as always, hat pulled over his eyes. The Host was almost able to fool himself into thinking he was just asleep, if he didn’t look down. If he refused to look at his once-white shirt now stained red, several bullet holes still leaking blood._

_Bing was scattered _everywhere_, ripped apart and dismantled, strewn about the room. His golden, mechanical blood splattered the walls, swirling with the red. His head, however, remained untouched, shades and all, and rested in Google’s lap. Google’s core was ruined, sparking violently, Google’s shirt melted to his skin around it. His eyes were dim, his glasses broken, and his logo shattered, blue leaking from the small cuts._

_The Host couldn’t bear to look at Dr. Iplier, his stomach turning at the sight of blood pooling around his head, which rested on the table._

_Silver made him sick. His arms were slit right up the vein, all the way to his elbows, shearing through his scars. He was practically soaking in his own blood. He would’ve bled out in minutes. Tear tracks stained his face, his mask missing, his once-white costume now irreversibly stained red._

_The twins were horrifying. RJ’s microphone was jammed into his mouth, most likely as a gag, his eyes wide and fearful. Bits of Bing stuck out of every part of him – his eyes, his lips, his hands, his torso, _everything_ – like he was used as a human shield from shrapnel. CJ’s head had been removed, smashed to pulpy soup on the table before him, and replaced by his camera, blood splattering the lens and dripping down his neck._

_Reynolds was hanging from the ceiling by a noose. His fingers were still caught in the rope around his throat, bleeding and raw. The Host could almost see him battling for breath. His face was purple and bloated, his glasses digging into his skin. He still swayed slightly._

_Wilford was pinned to the wall behind his chair by his own blades, stabbing through his hands, his shoulders, his legs, his arms. The Host recognized the sword sticking out of his gut as the same one that had once upon a time impaled Bim. And to top it all off, the pretty obsidian blade that had been a gift from Dark was buried in Wilford’s throat, marring the beautiful golden handle with his blood._

_Dark himself sat at the head of the table, hands folded across the surface and posture as perfect and rigid as ever, eyes closed. It was a surprise to see him without his aura, as well as his shimmering red and blue outline. In fact, he looked…empty, his twin souls gone and whatever dark force that powered him fled. He was just a shell, just a broken corpse left to slowly rot for nearly a century._

_The Host choked, tears beginning to slide down his face as he stared at the wreckage. This couldn’t be happening, this was just a dream, just some horrific nightmare – _

_There was a small groan, and the Host whipped his head around, breath hitching. _Someone was still alive here_. His heart crawled into his throat when he saw Dr. Iplier’s fingers twitch. He slowly lifted his head, is breathing labored and clearly in pain. The Host let out a horrified gasp when he saw Dr. Iplier’s eyes dangling from his sockets, blood painting his face. He flinched at the Host’s gasp, visibly swallowing, and his lips moved as if to speak, but then a knife was suddenly jammed in the back of his neck and his head was thumping back to the table, no longer moving._

_“_No!_” The Host gave a shuddering sob, reaching out with one hand while his other fisted tight in his hair. His gaze darted to the wielder of the blade, and he choked again, recoiling back and pressing himself flat against the wall, not quite caring about the blood as his eyes widened._

The Author _flashed him his shark-like grin, golden eyes glinting as he pulled the knife free of Dr. Iplier’s throat, lounging back in the Host’s chair. He tilted his head, still smiling and studying as the Host began to hyperventilate, eyes darting about the room and searching for an escape route but found none – where the door should be there was nothing but wall. _

_He was trapped – alone – with the Author._

_The Author’s lips curled in an exaggerated pout, twirling the blade and sending Dr. Iplier’s blood flying and flecking onto his face. “Aww, what’s wrong, Hosty? Did I break something you liked?”_

_The Host fisted his lapel in his hand, the other still gripping tight to his hair. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Dr. Iplier, blood dripping off the table. “Why – But – The Host thought the Author _liked _Dr. Iplier! Why would he _do _that, how is he even _here?!_”_

_The Author shrugged, standing and slowly wandering toward the Host, surveying the bodies. “True, I did. Your little infatuation didn’t start from nothing. But I wasn’t _that _attached. I knew him for what, two days? One and half? And then I started becoming _you_. Plus, that look on your face made it _so _worth it.” _

_His last sentence was said with laughter in his voice, and the Host let out another sob, crouching low to the floor, both hands now having made their way to his hair. “This isn’t real, this isn’t _real_, there’s no way this is real, the Host didn’t – the Host would never –”_

_“What tipped you off? The fact that you have eyes, that you can see? Or that you simply _refuse _to believe that _you_ did this, that you slaughtered them all?” The Author pulled the Host back up into a standing position, pinning him to the wall with a crushing grip on his shoulder, the tip of the knife just barely grazing the Host’s throat. The Author tilted his head again, golden eyes glinting. “This _scenario _may not be real, but the imagination is _all _you. Somewhere deep in your subconscious, you _wanted _this. _You_ killed them. And you can’t blame me! My hands are clean for once!” He paused, shrugging again, and he lifted the knife from the Host’s throat to gesture with it. “Okay, except for Dr. Iplier, but _most _of their blood is on _your _hands!”_

_The Host shook his head, going rigid as the knife tip moved back to his throat. “No, the Host _didn’t_, the Host would _never_, he is _not _a murder, he is _not _the Author.” He swallowed, painfully aware of the knife. “If this is all in the Host’s head, then the Author isn’t real, either. The Author is dead. This…this is all a nightmare.”_

_The Author chuckled, smiling far too wide, and the Host shrunk, heart in his throat. “Oooh, keep telling yourself that, Hosty. But you and I _both _know that I’m not dead. I’m nowhere near it! I’m just locked away, deep in your mind. But I’m still up there.” He tapped the Host’s forehead with the blade, creating a tiny nick. His grin widened. “And I think you’re well-aware of that. You hear me sometimes, don’tcha? My birthday, for one. And when Dr. Iplier was kidnapped, all that _rage _that lead you to beat some poor, _defenseless_ egos into nothing but a pool of blood and pulp. And what about when – oh what’s his name, Derek! – when Derek beat that other kid, and you _all _went into a homicidal meltdown? Sure, _some _of that was you, the raw emotion, but the _action_, the _thought _behind it…that was _all _me, baby.”_

_The Host felt the hot tears roll down his face, shakily releasing his hair and bringing his hands in front of his face. He closed his eyes, turning his head away and shaking with the force of his sobs when he saw the _red _coating every inch of them. The Author grinned. “_There _we go, now do you believe me? You’re not the golden boy you so _desperately _try to be.”_

_The Host shook his head, but it wasn’t as sure as previously. “The Host…the Host is _not _the Author.” His voice sounded so incredibly small, all power in it practically absorbed by the psychopath before him._

_The Author shrugged, and suddenly backed away, letting go of the Host. The Host slumped against the wall, tears still flooding down his face and his hands still held up in front of him. “Whatever you want to tell yourself, pal.” He gestured to the wall next the Host, and the glass meeting room door was suddenly revealed. “There’s your door. Get out of here if you oh so desire.” His golden eyes glinted, predatory grin flashing into place. “But I’m not going _anywhere_. You can’t get rid of me, Hosty. We’re stuck together. The Writer and the Prophet.”_

_The Host took one last glance around the room, eyes darting to the Author’s face for a _brief _moment, and then he was flying out the door._


	2. Chapter 2

The Host woke with a scream, tumbling out of bed and wrapped in his blankets. He didn’t even notice when he hit the floor, sobbing violently with the heel of his hands grinding against his bandages. He was strangely comforted by the black abyss around him, but the images of his family mangled and broken at his hands was permanently burned into his brain, inescapable.

And _God_, the Author’s _smile_…

He could _hear_ the Author, banging on the inside of his skull, louder and clearer than ever. He could almost hear his laugh, hear his _voice_, whispering to him. In his mind’s eye, he could just _barely_ see two tiny golden specks…

He flinched, breath hitching and curling into a ball, knees under his chest, when a hand was placed gently on his back. “Hey.” The Host only sobbed harder at the sound of Dr. Iplier’s voice, the scene of the Author plunging a knife into his neck playing over and over in his head. “You alright?”

The Host simply shook his head, forehead pressed to the floor. The banging in his head was _so loud_, impossible to ignore, though his sobbing was dying down to a manageable level. He felt Dr. Iplier wince, shifting closer to him and beginning to rub his back in small, soothing circles. “I’m so sorry, Host. Must’ve been a particularly bad one tonight.”

The Host nodded, breath shuddering and gasping and on the verge of hiccups. “Th-the Host –” He swallowed thickly. “The Host apologizes. He-he did not intend to wake Dr. Iplier.”

“Oh I was already awake.” The Host’s Sight flashed in time to catch Dr. Iplier’s small smile, kneeling at his side. “You are _incapable _of shutting up, you know that? You talk in your sleep.” The Host let out a short, breathy laugh, and Dr. Iplier chuckled. “You…you shouted ‘No’. That’s what woke me up. And you kept mumbling. Most of it I couldn’t understand, but…” Dr. Iplier sighed, his warmth pressing up against the Host as he leaned over to rest his forehead between the Host’s shoulders. “I caught the Author’s name _several _times.” The Host went rigid beneath him, breath hitching. “I can’t…I can’t even _imagine _what was going through your head. I’m so sorry. Do you…wanna talk about it?”

Again, the Host shook his head, but with much more authority. “No. Not tonight, not this one. The Host…would rather not relive it.”

Dr. Iplier pressed a kiss to the nape of his neck before sitting back upright, rubbing the Host’s back once more. “Okay. Whatever you want.” He paused, then patted the Host’s back, and the Host heard and felt him stand. “Come on. Let’s get you back to bed. I highly doubt the floor is comfortable, and you took all the blankets. Bastard.”

The Host laughed, lifting his head at last and getting shakily to his feet (with Dr. Iplier’s help). Miraculously, when he pulled his hands slowly from his bandages, it was revealed that blood had not come with his tears, a fact that had them both giving a sigh of relief. In fact, the Host was feeling _much _better, the Author’s banging and whispering growing softer and softer with every comforting word Dr. Iplier spoke. And when Dr. Iplier moved to pull the blankets off him and remake the bed, the Host simply flashed a cheeky grin, pulling them tighter around himself like a cloak or his coat. “Dr. Iplier will have to _take _them from the Host!”

He could hear Dr. Iplier’s grin in his voice. “Don’t you _dare_, it is _far _too late for that shit!” He reached for the Host again, but he danced out of reach, giggling and running off to the other side of the bed. “Goddammit, Host! You really wanna play these games, huh?” The Host’s grin just widened, shifting his feet in a stance prepared to run. Dr. Iplier laughed, his voice carrying a playful tone. “Alright, you asked for it.”

Dr. Iplier launched himself over the bed, rolling across it, and the Host let out a muffled shriek of delight (it _was _still fuck-all in the middle of the night, after all) as Dr. Iplier chased him around the room, just barely dodging his grabs for the blankets. By the time Dr. Iplier managed to back him into a corner by the bed, they were both breathing hard and unable to contain their giggling. Dr. Iplier grinned, poised to move if the Host tried to make a run for it, chest heaving. “You’ve got nowhere to run, my dear. Give up.”

The Host’s grin turned into his usual knowing, smug smirk. “_Never_.”

And with that he charged, moving faster than Dr. Iplier could react. He whipped open his blanket cloak and wrapped Dr. Iplier in it with him before he tackled Dr. Iplier to the bed, pinning him down with his own body. Dr. Iplier shrieked with surprise, a sound the Host quickly muted by pressing their lips together, humming contentedly. Dr. Iplier squirmed beneath him, pressing back all the same, and when the Host pulled back, smiling softly, he pouted, adopting his grumpy, _obvious _façade. “You _suck_.”

The Host laughed, leaning forward just enough so their noses brushed together. “Dr. Iplier is wrapped in the blankets, is he not? He is warm. And the Host is _very _comfortable.” He shifted down a little, promptly burying his face against the side of Dr. Iplier’s throat, and pressing light kisses to it.

Dr. Iplier giggled, squirming again. “Stop, _stop_, that tickles!” The Host simply smirked, peppering Dr. Iplier’s skin with more kisses. Dr. Iplier laughed, turning his head in an attempt to escape and unintentionally bearing more of his throat to the Host’s lips, an action the Host _happily _took advantage of. “_Alright_, alright, I get it! Just _stop_, you _ass!_”

The Host obeyed, but not without one last kiss, chuckling against Dr. Iplier’s skin. He pulled back again, opening his mouth to say something in return (most likely cheeky), but he closed it, head tilting and brow furrowing, when he heard Dr. Iplier gasp. “Oh! What happened to your forehead?”

The Host’s confusion grew. “What does Dr. Iplier mean?”

Dr. Iplier wiggled one arm free of the Host and their blanket cocoon. “You’ve got a little nick, right here.” He tapped the Host’s forehead, and the Host went rigid. Dr. Iplier either didn’t notice or didn’t deem it important enough to mention, as he kept talking. “It’s not even bleeding, well, not a lot. I don’t think your hemophilia can affect something that small.” He wormed his arm back into the cocoon. “Must’ve gotten it when you fell.”

The Host shimmied down a bit more, using Dr. Iplier’s chest as a pillow, frowning heavily. He couldn’t tell if the pulsing in his ears was Dr. Iplier’s heartbeat or the Author’s incessant _banging_, the once-fading noise increasing tenfold. He sighed. He could feel Dr. Iplier’s breath ruffling his hair, his breath warm against his scalp. His chest rose and fell in a steady, reassuring rhythm. The Host forced himself to relax, melting against Dr. Iplier and began the descent back into sleep.

“Yes, must have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:)  
_**I enjoyed this one**_  
I hope you guys liked it! Sunday's story is a _lot_ nicer, I mean, I can't go wrong with a snarky Bim and a blushy King, can I  
See you then!
> 
> Tumblr: doctordiscord123.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> This bit in particular is inspired but Im_The_Doctor's work! When they first posted that story is when I first got this idea! _Tells you how long I stockpile stories doesn't it_


End file.
